


Appraisal

by SingingShantiesAllTheWay



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Character, Awkward Conversations, Canon Asexual Character, Consensual, Male Masturbation, Not a ship, Other, Voyeurism, sex-favourable asexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:20:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23832265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SingingShantiesAllTheWay/pseuds/SingingShantiesAllTheWay
Summary: Sasha's not great at sitting on guilt. Currently, the guilt upon which she's uncomfortably perched involves the top of a wardrobe, a warm and sunny morning, and Oscar Wilde in a state of déshabille, as it were.-A follow-up piece to Anything Except Temptation.
Relationships: Sasha Racket & Oscar Wilde
Comments: 14
Kudos: 79





	Appraisal

**Author's Note:**

> “The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.” - Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wilde
> 
> (I /know/, I promised an update to Secure, and then I remembered I had this one nearly completed in my WIP folder and needed the distraction so... )

Wilde had been, on and off, watching Sasha.

The young thief (or rather:  _ appraiser _ ) was not precisely a glittering social butterfly at the best of times. She was too blunt. She was made entirely of rough edges and ironic honesty, qualities which Wilde, being a creature of artifice and secrecy, quite naturally found refreshing and inestimably valuable.

Sasha’s natural discomfort with any socialising that didn’t involve sharp objects was a given. It had however noticeably intensified over the last week or so, and Wilde progressed from bemused to curious to, finally, concerned.

Since he had joined the group, Wilde found value in spending time- if not  _ with _ , then at least  _ near  _ his agents, rather than remaining a distant and occasional contact. He learned their habits, the things they argued about and the things that strengthened their bonds. He discovered what made them laugh. He learned what made Grizzop scowl (almost everything); what made Azu smile (almost everything); what pleased Hamid and flustered Sasha.

Wilde learned, in short, what manner of people the London and Other London Mercenary Group were, beyond what made them useful to him and to his Meritocratic employers. He was therefore nominally well-equipped by now, probably, possibly, to determine what was and was not normal behaviour.

So Wilde had taken to keeping an eye on Sasha. Perhaps there was a pattern to be discerned, some breadcrumb trail one might surreptitiously follow to the source of her escalated awkwardness.

It wasn’t difficult.

It took only a couple of days’ observation to determine that whatever had caused Sasha’s discomfiture had something to do with him. Sasha found excuses to be elsewhere whenever Wilde was in the same room, and when she could not justify absenting herself, was unsubtly careful to put as much distance between them as was feasible. When one morning Wilde, talking to Hamid, inadvertently blocked the kitchen doorway, Sasha went so far as to clamber out the window instead. Wilde leaned out and asked her, puzzled, what she was doing, and she nearly lost her grip on the trellis to which she was clinging. Recovering her balance, Sasha stuttered something about “keepin’ in practice, windows’re, they’re  _ useful _ , right, sometimes ‘s th’only way out’ve a place and ‘sgood to, you know, know you  _ can _ ...”

Sasha trailed off and Wilde, puzzled but unwilling to pursue it, retreated and left her to her “practice”.

Wilde couldn’t recall any interactions which might have engendered this sort of hypervigilant tension, but he supposed there must have been  _ something _ . Whatever it was, he found himself wishing she would just tell him so he could make amends if possible, and avoid it going forward.

Sasha was a frie- an invaluable asset, after all. If something had damaged their working relationship, Wilde needed to repair it as soon as humanly possible.

The problem he faced, however, was devising a way to broach the topic. Any conversation Wilde envisaged inevitably ended (quite swiftly) with Sasha bolting at speed. It was a  _ problem _ .

As it turned out, it was a problem that resolved itself.

Dinners in the LOLOMG’s temporary headquarters were invariably informal affairs. Sometimes Hamid cooked, sometimes Azu cooked, more often everyone wandered through when they were hungry and put together their own meal of whatever was available and looked appealing at that moment.

Consequently, Wilde was perched on top of the wooden table in the kitchen, a slim stack of papers balanced across his knee and a slight, distracted frown on his face. It was quite late. Most of the group had retired for the evening, and Wilde had the first floor to himself. One hand held a haphazardly-made sandwich that he had almost immediately forgotten about, the other traced with a slender fingertip the text he was reading. It was not, as far as Wilde could tell, encoded in any way, but the handwriting was dreadful enough to nearly qualify as its own form of cryptography.

Which was just as well. It was  _ supposed _ to be coded. The quality of available operatives was in significant decline, and a source of no small worry for Wilde.

A rustle from the kitchen doorway jerked Wilde’s attention from the nigh-illegible mission brief. He nearly dropped his sandwich, managing to catch it with both hands, but was unable to do the same for the resultant spill of papers off his knee. They scattered to the floor in an untidy mess, and Wilde swore under his breath.

Sasha managed a nervous, crooked half-smile. 

“Wotcher, Wilde,” she said more than a little hesitantly. Sasha waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the spilled documents. "That was  _ tear- _ able of me, sorry.” Her desperately hopeful expression, rather than the godawful pun, made Wilde laugh out loud, and Sasha visibly relaxed.

Not completely, Wilde noted. Her posture still suggested a woman on high alert, and it pinged uneasily along his nerves.

“Oh, not to worry,” he told her, and set the sandwich aside directly on the tabletop. Plates, while one was working, were a concern for other people. Wilde unfolded his legs from the table and stretched to nudge the disarray with a judgemental toe. “Given the dreadful state of what I was being forced to read, they’re in the  _ write _ place now.” 

Definitely not his best work, but then, he hadn’t intended it to be. Wilde  _ intended _ for it to bring the half-smile back to Sasha’s face, and to his relief, it did so.

“That was awful, Wilde,” she said. “I  _ ink _ you’ve been workin’ too hard. Losin’ y’r touch.”

“I suppose,” he countered, “that I have  _ pen _ burning the candle at both ends, recently.” Wilde was pleased to note the lopsided grin broaden, just the tiniest bit.

“Yeah, so. Wilde.” Sasha glanced over her shoulder, then sloped out of the doorway and fully into the kitchen. After a moment’s hesitation and to Wilde’s intense surprise, she closed the door behind herself. “So I, um. I wanted- well, not exactly  _ wanted _ , I mean, I’m- this is- well, it’s- I mean I should, should tell you-” 

Wilde was intrigued. She was  _ blushing _ . He tried to remember if he had ever seen Sasha blush before, and came up empty. Awkward, unquestionably. Uncomfortable, perplexed, suspicious... but never genuinely  _ embarrassed _ .

“Sasha,” Wilde broke in. Sasha stopped dithering and glanced up at him, then swiftly away, and shifted her weight to lounge as nonchalantly as possible against the doorframe. Wilde was not fooled.

“Sasha, whatever it is you want to say-” A dozen possibilities darted through Wilde’s wildly speculating mind:  _ she was leaving the LOLOMG. She was dying (again). She had finally stol-  _ **_appraised_ ** _ something that had got her into serious trouble. She had accidentally(?) murdered someone- _

Wilde firmly stamped down the hectic internal monologue, and drew a calming breath in; out again. Then he tipped his head and leaned forward just a bit, trying to catch Sasha’s eye, which was as he suspected an exercise in futility.

“Whatever it is you want to say,” Wilde repeated more quietly, as gently as he could, “rest assured you can tell it to me without judgment.”

Wilde hoped his smile was reassuring; that particular effect was not precisely a well-used tool in his expressive repertoire. He was an expert at the sardonic smirk, and his superciliously raised eyebrow knew no peer. Approachable and kind? Wilde had  _ far  _ less experience with these.

On a whim, he patted the table next to where he sat. Sasha glanced over at his hand, and an expression Wilde couldn’t identify flitted across her face and was gone. But after a moment, Sasha pushed away from the doorframe and oozed over to the table. And then around it. Wilde turned his head to follow, but she muttered a quick, “Don’t.”

Bemused, his curiosity further piqued, Wilde turned back to face the door again and contented himself with listening instead. Sasha was being remarkably considerate, in fact: he could actually hear her moving. 

The table juddered slightly when Sasha jumped up to sit with her back to him. Wilde turned his head again, just slightly, just enough to peek over his shoulder for a moment. He could see only Sasha’s hand resting on the table. Her nimble fingers drummed the wood in agitation. 

“So. Wilde.”

“Yes?”

There was a distinct pause. Wilde had turned back to gaze idly at nothing in particular, but could still hear the rapid  _ tap-tap-tap _ of Sasha’s fingers on the tabletop. It was joined now by an arrhythmic, duller  _ thud _ that he decided must be one boot-heel hitting a table leg.

“Um. So. You have to- you have to promise, right, that you won’t be mad at me, yeah? Like, I mean, you probably  _ will _ be, right, but. I, I didn’t  _ mean _ to, it just, it just kind of  _ happened _ I thought I had more time and then it just all like, happened all at once and I didn’t  _ think  _ and-”

Wilde frowned at the nothing in particular he had been staring at, and half-turned around again. This conversation was already difficult enough to follow without visual cues, but Sasha heard the movement and shook her head frantically.

“No!” Sasha said, and Wilde heard an edge of panic in her voice. “Don’t. Don’t- I can’t- if I’m  _ lookin’  _ at you, or if- if I know you’re lookin’ at  _ me _ , I won’t- um. I won’t be able to. To tell you.”

“Sasha, I-”

“Please. Please?”

Wilde considered the tense line of Sasha’s defensively-hunched shoulders and the frenetic fidgeting of her hands, her bouncing knee, her jiggling foot, and he once again obliged her and withdrew. Far from allaying any of his concerns, this entire conversation thus far- such as it was- had only served to ratchet his apprehension ever higher.

So Wilde turned around again to face front and replied, pitching his voice to be certain it was clearly aimed directly away from her, “Very well.”

Behind him, Sasha sighed. Wilde could hear the couple of breaths she took, quick and shallow, to calm her nerves, and then a pause... And then an abrupt rush of words as Sasha mustered her courage.

“So like, a week? A week ago, yeah, I was, I was by myself, cos like, ‘amid an’ Azu an’ Grizzop, they went out to run their errands, an’ you were gone doin’- whatever is you do when you go off alone- an’ I stayed behind, to keep an eye on things here, cos like, you never know when somebody’ll try to, to get in and like,  _ ambush _ us or summat, cos I  _ know _ , I  _ mean,  _ there’s lots of people that don’t like us, yeah? We’ve been makin’ a lot of noise, right, and muckin’ up a lot of peoples’ plans an’ like, it pays to be careful, so I stuck around here to make sure it stayed safe.”

Wilde remained silent through the barrage, brow furrowed. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, propped his chin on his folded hands, and tried to sort out where in the  _ world _ this was going.

Sasha continued, her words spilling faster and faster as she went.

“And like, I was lookin’ through the house, just to make sure, and honestly to like, just  _ practice _ , right? Practice bein’ quiet, movin’ about without bein’ heard, cos that’s  _ dead _ useful, and like, I finished checkin’ the downstairs, an’ headed up to the other floor, cos I thought, if there was nobody  _ down _ stairs, maybe they came in through like, a window. Climbed down from the roof an’ snuck in upstairs, I mean that’s how  _ I’d  _ do it-” 

There was, Wilde detected, a distinct note of pride in that particular remark. Still, he did not interrupt. Experience informed him that Sasha would eventually talk herself around to the point she was trying to make.

“-so I went upstairs, an’ I checked ‘amid ‘n Grizzop’s room first, an’ then I checked mine ‘n Azu’s, and then-”

Wilde lifted his head like a hare that had scented the hunting hound. He stared at the far wall, suspicion blossoming.

Sasha was still talking, quickly and breathlessly the nearer she got to the point of what was by now clearly a confession.

“-your door wasn’t locked and-  _ honestly _ , Wilde, lock your  _ door _ , I mean that’s just  _ basic _ security, right?”

Sasha appeared perfectly oblivious to the irony of this statement and forged ahead. Wilde, with a sinking feeling, drew in an almost-calm breath and let it out, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Oh,  _ hell _ .

“-an’ like, I wasn’t- I wasn’t  _ lookin’ _ at anything, just sort of lookin’  _ around _ , right, an’ I was  _ just about to leave _ , honestly, when I heard, um. I heard th’door open an’ like, I know what you sound like when you walk, I know what  _ everybody _ sounds like, you’ve got, right, this really quiet step but there’s just a little bit of a like... like a click? When you put your heel down, right, cos like, you walk all posh, and anyway, I knew it was you and I just- I  _ panicked _ , Wilde, an’ instead of leavin’ I.” Sasha paused, for possibly the first breath since she’d started talking. When she continued, it was much,  _ much _ more quietly.

Wilde already knew what she was going to say. He closed his eyes and tried to decide how he felt about it.

“I um. I  _ hid _ . An’ you came in, an’ you shut the door an’ locked it, and. And. An’ you got like, half-undressed, right, an’ laid down an’ I was gonna  _ leave _ , right, cos like, layin’ down means sleepin’, or at  _ least _ a nap, and once somebody's asleep it's  _ nothin' _ to sneak by 'em- Just had to wait till you were proper sleepin', yeah?” Even through her overwhelming awkwardness, Wilde could hear the note of censure in her tone, and he wryly smiled. Every last member of the LOLOMG was determined to nag him into taking better care of himself, it seemed.

And. Well. To be fair to him, at the point which Sasha was describing, that was precisely what Wilde had been trying to do, in a manner of speaking.

“But you, um. Didn’t. Sleep. So I couldn’t leave.” Sasha audibly swallowed. “I um. I  _ saw _ . You.”

Sasha fell silent. The drumming of her fingers on the table had ceased, but both feet were kicking the table leg now, a rapid drumbeat that Wilde fancied mirrored the nervous pounding of her heart.

“...Wilde?”

He blinked and realised he had yet to respond to her confession, but Sasha was already off and running again.

“Gods, Wilde say- say  _ something _ , I mean, I- I’m  _ sorry _ , Wilde, honestly I didn’t  _ mean to _ -”

“Sasha.”

She stopped. He heard the click of her teeth as Sasha shut her mouth.

Wilde tipped his head and gazed thoughtfully up at the ceiling. How  _ did _ he feel about this?

To be perfectly candid... for the most part, Wilde was intrigued. Out of all the scenarios he’d imagined when this conversation began, he could never have envisaged this. Perhaps part of his reaction was relief, but more than that, Wilde- unrepentant sensualist that he was- was  _ interested _ .

“Sasha,” he said calmly, “You’ve no need to apologise. I’m not angry.”

Behind him there was nothing but absolute stillness. The staccato beat of heels on the table leg had ceased; Wilde couldn’t even hear Sasha breathing, and wondered if she had once again simply vanished into thin air, as she frequently appeared to do. Although he was looking at the door, which had not opened, and he’d have heard the window if she’d chosen that route again.

Wilde looked down at his hands in his lap, and took a moment to idly clean beneath his impeccably manicured fingernails, waiting.

Then Sasha whispered, “...you’re not... I mean,  _ yeah _ , I made you promise, but like-”

“I’m not angry.”

The silence stretched, and Wilde, sensitive to Sasha’s awkward position, remained where he was, still adhering to her earlier request to  _ not look at her _ . He felt a distinct pang of sympathy for Sasha, and wondered how much actual experience with that sort of thing she had. He’d not heard of any entanglements while she’d been in his employ, and was unaware of any that might have occurred previously. There was that Brock fellow, but as far as Wilde could ascertain, it hadn’t been that sort of relationship.

So as far as Sasha’s experience went, to judge by the prolonged and agonised admission, and the weeks’ worth of buildup while she marshalled the courage to tell him...not much.

Oh, Wilde thought again,  _ hell _ .

It was a bit of a surprise when Sasha’s boots appeared in the periphery of his vision. She rounded the table and stopped a couple of feet away but within his line of sight, and Wilde lifted his head.

Sasha was peering at him in bewildered suspicion. She actually held a dagger in one hand, and Wilde felt reasonably certain she had no idea she’d drawn it. Some people fidgeted with rings or jewelry; others tugged at hems or collars or cuffs. Sasha played with knives.

Wilde spread his hands to the sides, palms up, in a gesture of peaceful surrender. He didn’t smile, still uncertain he’d be able to actually generate a genuine one, but instead offered Sasha calm neutrality in its place.

It appeared to be the right call. 

Sasha straightened and tucked the knife away. “...y’r really not angry.”

Wilde shook his head, and couldn’t help the smile this time: small, wry rather than sly. He let his hands fall back into his lap, careful to appear unthreatening.

“Not even the tiniest bit.”

“Oh.” Sasha thought a moment, then asked bluntly, “What  _ are _ you, then?”

Like the smile, Wilde couldn’t help the laugh, a surprised chuckle that made Sasha scowl. He held up a hand, shaking his head. “Don’t be angry, Sasha, I apologise. I’m not laughing at you. I assure you I’m not.”

Once again, Wilde patted the table next to him, and this time, warily, Sasha drew closer and hopped up to sit nearby. Not close, but not hiding either.

This was progress. Good.

“This is,” Wilde said, “not a conversation I ever imagined having.” He leaned back, propped with his hands behind him on the table. “What am I?” He reflected a moment, watching the shadow of her swinging foot on the far wall. “I am... hopeful that this has not damaged our working relationship. And I am curious,” Wilde admitted finally.

Sasha was looking at him. Wilde cast his gaze aside, taking in her posture, trying to gauge her response and what course the next part of this wholly unexpected conversation should take.

Sasha decided it for him.

“Curious about what?”

Sasha was calmer, Wilde was pleased to note. She had plunged into the dreaded waters and the worst hadn’t happened, and now that there was nothing to guard against, Sasha was letting the defensive walls relax.

Wilde did not immediately answer. Was there a way to phrase this that wouldn’t seem... prurient?

Probably not. But Wilde was mildly startled to realise that he genuinely was  _ just _ curious. While his preferences ran decidedly to the masculine, Wilde was not averse to the occasional dalliance with women; even so, Sasha might in fact be one of the only people he’d ever met with whom Wilde simply couldn’t imagine indulging himself.

He certainly couldn’t imagine taking advantage of her the way he’d done Sir Bertrand McGuffingham. Out of everyone Wilde knew, Sasha Racket deserved it the least.

She clearly expected an answer, however, and it seemed a night for honesty. Wilde shrugged one-shouldered and finally replied, “While it’s not something I expect an answer to... I’m curious what you thought.”

As he’d half-expected, Sasha didn’t answer. Wilde remained silent for several moments and finally turned his head to look directly at her.

Sasha looked pensive, rather than devoured by nerves, which was a considerable improvement. She worried at her lower lip with her teeth; her brows were drawn down into something that wasn’t entirely a scowl, and she stared fiercely at the kitchen door handle as though it was planning an ambush.

Wilde came to an abrupt decision.

“Sasha,” he said matter-of-factly, and turned entirely to face her. Wilde drew his long legs up to sit cross-legged on the table. “Sasha, look at me, please.”

She did, sliding her gaze to watch him sidelong. It wasn’t what he’d hoped for, but it was more than he’d expected, so Wilde took it as the victory it was and plunged ahead.

“There is nobody here but you and I,” he said quietly. “Nobody here to judge you, nobody here to approve or disapprove or feel any way about you whatsoever, except me, and I-” Wilde hesitated, then tipped his head and let the gesture bring with it another tiny (and, he hoped, genuine) smile. “I like you, Sasha; I consider you a- valuable asset to this team, and a pleasant companion. And while I am aware that I have something of a... let us say mildly unsavoury reputation- and in many ways, one that is well deserved- I need you to understand that in no way do I view you as a potential target for such attention.”

Sasha nodded thoughtfully. After another pause and to Wilde’s pleased surprise, she swung her feet up onto the table and mirrored his posture.

“Alright,” Sasha said, and the last remnant of tension bled away from her slim form. There was only her usual vague awkwardness at being in a conversation about anything at all, with anybody. “What I thought was-” Sasha pulled her knees up and rested her pointed chin between them, arms wrapped around her legs. “It was... interestin’. Answered some questions.”

And that in and of itself answered a question or two for Wilde. He leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees.

“You’d never seen...”

Sasha shook her head.

“Not even once?”

“Nope. I mean. I’m not... really interested? I guess? I mean it was never- nobody’s ever made me wanna go Oooh that bloke’s for  _ me _ , lads; or Hey she’s a pretty one ain’t she?” Sasha frowned, thoughtful rather than upset. “I just... never really wanted anythin’ like that.”

Wilde gave her a slow nod. “It’s certainly not for everyone,” he replied, and ventured a sly little smirk. “There are those of us who more than fill any gap you might leave.” 

Sasha laughed at that, a sharp bark of humour that made Wilde smile more broadly.

“Yeah,” she said, “kinda already figured that part out, Wilde. You’re not exactly  _ subtle _ .” Pot... kettle.

“Regardless,” Wilde continued smoothly, “it's...something of a relief to me to learn this." It was a fairly common occurrence for an agent to develop a certain interest in their handler, and Wilde was genuinely relieved that it was not a headache he was going to have to face with Sasha. "I hope it doesn't bother  _ you? _ ” 

Sasha shrugged. “M'not fussed about it,” she told him. “But, I mean - yeah, yours was... th’first um. That I ever. Saw, like... not in a drawing, or summat.”

Wilde nodded thoughtfully.

“I must ask you,” he said, keeping his tone neutral, “if you wish to continue this conversation, or if you would prefer to leave it where it stands.” He watched her face closely as he continued, “Understand that... if we continue? I am  _ not speaking as your handler _ . At this point, any further discussion - frankly, this entire conversation - is entirely personal. And it continues, or does not, only if you wish it to.”

Sasha shrugged.

“I guess we’re both curious buggers, aren’t we? Might as well keep goin’.”

Wilde bestowed upon Sasha his most scintillating smile, one he had honed into nearly the most potent weapon in his arsenal. She was, he was now certain, perfectly immune to it. There was something freeing about that fact.

"Very well. And what do you think, now that you've seen an  _ um _ , not in a drawing."

It was a very gentle mockery. Sasha was, as predicted, entirely unaffected by Wilde's charm, and rolled her eyes expressively.

"Underwhelming," she fired back, and Wilde laughed again.

"Touché," he replied. Wilde leaned his chin on his hand, elbow propped on his knee, and regarded Sasha closely. She squirmed slightly under his gaze but to her credit, she did not look away. "I am being serious, however, in a way. It's...quite clear that no-one ever thought to give you any real education about such things."

Sasha shrugged again. She was picking at the hem of her trouser leg, something for her hands to do while she uncomfortably (if defiantly) met Wilde’s curious gaze.

“I mean, it- it just... never came up while I was learnin’ how t’be quiet an’ like, pick a lock an’ then again when- when Barret sent me to Rakefine, it was all  _ Here’s a salad fork  _ an’  _ Don’t put your elbows on the table, Sasha _ , an’  _ Don’t drop your haitches, Sasha _ -” Her tone was scathing, and Wilde suppressed a grin with significant difficulty.

Sasha finally looked away to glare down at the increasingly-ragged hem between her fingers. “Lotsa stuff I didn’t learn about, I guess,” she sullenly muttered.

Wilde considered her small form in silence for a moment, balanced precariously between two options.

“What would you like to know?” Wilde finally asked, voice quiet and as uncharacteristically serious as his expression.

Sasha stared at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. She was no longer blushing. The speculative moment stretched. Sasha slithered off the table and padded over to the kitchen door. She opened it and leaned out, listening.

No sound came from any other part of the house. The rest of the LOLOMG appeared to be entirely asleep now. Somewhere, a clock softly ticked away the seconds and this was the only sound made by anything other than themselves.

Sasha closed the door then turned and leaned against it. She fixed Wilde with the same speculative gaze, then said abruptly, “Can I see it again?”

_ That _ shocked him. Wilde blinked dumbly at her. While  _ he  _ certainly had no compunctions, Sasha’s blunt dive straight into the deep end of the topic was unexpected.

Although... upon reflection, it shouldn’t have been. When she wasn’t being awkwardly circumlocutory, Sasha was unceremoniously direct.

“If you like,” Wilde replied, and swung his legs over the side of the table to slide off and to the floor. He bowed to her, ever the gentleman. “If you would be so kind,” he said as he straightened, “please fetch two of the large cushions from the common room.”

Sasha squinted at him, but vanished through the kitchen door. Wilde, meanwhile, found a broom and swept clean a large portion of the floor by one wall. When Sasha returned a minute later, he arranged the cushions there- one for him, one nearby it for her, placed with a little distance between. A buffer for her boundaries.

Wilde sank down to sit- lounge, really- with his back against the wall, one knee up with his wrist propped over it, the other leg outstretched. After a moment or two, Sasha joined him. She sat facing Wilde, hugging her knees but watching him closely.

Wilde searched Sasha’s face, looking for any hint of doubt or discomfort, and found only cautious but clear interest. He lifted a brow in a wordless question.

Sasha glanced to his lap. She glanced at the door. And she nodded.

Moving deliberately and taking his time, Wilde unbuttoned his waistcoat and tugged the hem of his shirt out of his trousers so that he could unbutton that as well. Unclasped, the shirt fell open to frame his torso.

Again, Wilde glanced up at Sasha, gauging her reaction, watching for the first indication that he should stop; again, there was nothing but curiosity. Wilde noted with fascination that Sasha seemed to be intently focused on his hands rather than the skin which he was gradually baring.

Wilde slid his palms lightly down his abdomen until he reached the waistband of his trousers. Still moving with deliberate patience, he pushed the first button free of its mooring, glanced over. Moved to the next, then the next, and between each one, he looked at Sasha, confirming that he should continue.

The last button slipped free. Wilde lifted his hips just enough to push his trousers down to mid-thigh and settled back again. His cock lay in the gentle crease between hip and thigh, small and soft and unintimidating, and Wilde rested his hands across his abdomen, watching Sasha’s face.

She leaned forward a bit, head tilted like a cat considering a mousehole. It was a disconcerting sort of regard to have directed at one’s nethers, to be sure.

Sasha unfolded to sit crosslegged instead of hugging her knees, and reached a tentative hand forward. She stopped abruptly, gaze darting to Wilde’s face.

“Can I...?”

Wilde, again startled and trying not to reveal it, nodded and gestured with one hand to his lap in invitation. “Be my guest.”

Sasha scooted a little closer, bringing the cushion with her. Tentatively, she reached out again. Wilde held his breath. The glide of her fingertips, when it finally came, was barely-there-light. Wilde let go his held breath, a slow exhalation through his nose, and half-closed his eyes. In no other respect did he move. He held himself absolutely motionless and allowed Sasha to satisfy her curiosity at her own direction.

The second touch was less uncertain, although still feather-light, and Sasha’s skin was cool against Wilde’s. With as much will as he could muster, Wilde did his utmost to quell any visible or tangible reaction to her exploratory touch.

She dragged her fingertips along the underside of his shaft from base to tip, then, when nothing happened, gave it a gentle squeeze between her thumb and a pair of fingers. Wilde closed his eyes briefly against the first faint glimmering of arousal:  _ no, not yet. _

“Huh,” Sasha muttered, and Wilde opened his eyes, focusing on her thoughtful face. “‘S  _ softer’n  _ I expected.” She let go of his cock and experimentally rested her palm over it, her fingertips just brushing his sensitive inner thigh.

“Mmmmhm.” Wilde drew and released another calming breath. “Most of the time, that-” -he indicated the space where Sasha’s hand was resting. “-is all there is to it.” He shifted his hips a little, finding a more comfortable position to sit, and it achieved a moment of slight and delicious friction against her palm. Wilde swallowed.

Sasha lifted her hand and stared down at his cock, nonplussed. “Wot, so it just... hangs there?” So saying, she reached to gently nudge it with a fingertip, then moved her attention a bit lower, taking in the loose skin of his scrotum with clear skepticism and without touching. “‘Sall pretty weird lookin’, ‘f you ask me.”

Wilde snorted, amused. “I’m forced to admit you’re correct,” he told her. “Ridiculous, and impractical. It’s quite a vulnerable target, and frequently the cause of much trouble. Frankly, the thing’s only good for relieving oneself; the rest is more trouble than it’s worth.”

Sasha echoed his snort. “I don’t b’lieve f’r a  _ single moment _ that you actually believe that, Wilde,” she said, and he bestowed upon her a look of purest innocence.

“You are correct about that as well,” he replied, belying his expression.

Sasha leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, propping her chin in her hands.

“It’s not...  _ always _ like that,” she said, staring at his cock. “I mean, if nothin’ else, I’ve seen graffiti wot looks  _ real  _ different, and anyway I  _ saw _ -”

Wilde tipped his head back to rest against the wall and turned it to the side to look at her. “It is not, no,” he said quietly, and failed to prevent a slight, anticipatory twitch of his cock. Sasha, always keenly observant, of course noticed, and her attention immediately latched onto it.

“Did-” 

“Mmhmm.”

“...do it again?”

Wilde unfolded his hands, let them fall to rest atop his thighs, touching nothing else yet. He had yet to look away from Sasha’s face, still scrutinising every minutest shift in her expression for any sign that this was beginning to transgress her boundaries.

So far, still nothing but cautious curiosity. Well, then.

“Shall I provide a full demonstration?” Wilde asked, one brow haughtily lofted. It was calculated to make Sasha laugh, should she look at his face, and as suspected, she did.

“Yeah, alright,” Sasha replied, her face a portrait of commingled amusement and apprehension.

Wilde nodded, and slid his hands toward each other until, thumbs and forefingers touching, he framed the base of his cock. “Nervous?” he teased, as gently as he could. “Don’t be, there’s to be nothing you’ve not already observed.”

_ That _ earned him a look that held daggers. Wilde was astonished Sasha could carry any more of them, metaphorical or otherwise, but the mild teasing had done its job: most of Sasha’s remaining nervousness eased away to leave curiosity ascendant.

Wilde wriggled briefly, settling his shoulders more comfortably against the wall, his back a parabola curving down and out so that, with his legs outstretched, his lower half was nearly lying down. It was not a position he would be able to maintain for any extended period, but it offered Sasha an unobstructed view.

“If,” Wilde said to her quietly, “you need me to stop, or pause, or if you have any questions... I leave the course of this entire demonstration in your hands.” Unable to help himself, Wilde smirked. “Well,” he amended, “ _ almost _ the entire demonstration.” He illustrated this latter point by sliding one hand to curve his palm over his cock, covering it from view.

Sasha rolled her eyes, but returned her attention immediately to Wilde’s hands. Like a magician revealing the dénouement of his trick, Wilde slid his hand away to reveal a more swollen cock than he had hidden. Sasha folded her arms across her midsection and leaned forward, watching with tilted head and sharp eyes.

“It’s largely involuntary,” he murmured, “which is troublesome. It’s difficult, but one can prevent it, to some extent, if one tries  _ very hard _ .”

Had she caught the pun? She had not; Sasha’s expression had not changed. She frowned at his disappointed sigh.

“Wot?”

“That was a pun, I’m afraid. I shall try it again later and see if it lands.” Wilde winked at her, and grasped his shaft in one hand.

The curve of his own palm around his cock was a familiar sensation for Wilde, of course. He doubted there was anyone in the world who had a penis and hadn’t spent a protracted amount of time memorising every inch. Came with the territory. As it were.

Wilde moved with almost exaggerated slowness to ensure that he did not in any way obscure Sasha’s view of what he was doing. An easeful stroke down - not far, his cock still in only the beginning stage of erection; another up again, paced just as lazily so that she could see, as his arousal languidly deepened, the physical response.

It had been a while, in fact - since boyhood, practically - since Wilde had paid much attention to the minutiae of the process, and Sasha’s intense focus drew his attention there as well. His heartbeat - steady and strong - was reflected in the rhythmic throb of his cock, and Wilde let his hand fall to the side to rest on his thigh, watching the gradual engorgement with almost as much fascination as Sasha.

“So it just-  _ grows _ , yeah?” She propped her elbows on her knees and cupped her chin in her hands, still staring intently at Wilde’s lap. “...’sit hurt? Whassit feel like?”

Wilde arched a brow and pursed his lips thoughtfully. Under their joined attention, his cock lengthened, thickened, stretched itself lazily out to lie up against his abdomen.

“Hurt? Not at all. It is... it feels...  _ heavy, _ ” he finally settled on, and wryly grinned. “That’s rather a lot of blood, you know.” He waved a hand over it like a showman proud of his work. “Leaves one a touch light-headed, if I’m being honest.”

Now fully erect, Wilde’s cock was considerably larger than it had been when first revealed, and Sasha peered at it. Again, she reached one hand tentatively forward, glanced up at his face, leaving the question implied rather than spoken.

“Be my guest,” he murmured, and shifted his hips, once again trying to find a more comfortable position.

Sasha gave the swollen head a swift but comparatively gentle poke, testing the flesh to find it resisted the pressure this time. Wilde let a breath out through his nose as his cock involuntarily twitched.

“Huh,” she pronounced, somewhat dismissively Wilde felt, although he couldn’t blame her, really. No basis for comparison, after all; how was she to accurately judge so fine a specimen?

Sasha poked it again. “So ‘s hard all the way down, yeah?”

“It is.” Wilde watched her fingers twitch, and grinned. “Go ahead, if you like.”

Sasha experimentally curled her hand around Wilde’s shaft, mimicking what she had watched him do, and Wilde bit his lip, willing himself to make no noise, to give no overt reaction that might startle or discomfit her. Her skin was cool against the swollen flesh, warm with too much blood.

She gave his cock a gentle squeeze, testing its firmness as she had the glans, and then shrugged and withdrew.

“That’s really  _ weird _ , Wilde, that bits of you just like...  _ change  _ like that, all the time.”

He couldn’t disagree, and said so. “The whole point is procreation, of course, but I have no intention of getting offspring on some poor woman who doesn’t deserve that curse, so I shall have to make do with using it purely for pleasure.”

Sasha made a face, although she was laughing a little.

“Ugh. Lotta girls, growin’ up? They were  _ mad  _ for babies, couldn’t wait t’have a whole flock of ‘em underfoot. I never saw th’point. An’ th’whole idea of- of  _ havin’ babies _ -”

Wilde sympathised with her full-body shudder.

“I entirely agree. And in any case, my tastes primarily lie in - well, the other direction.”

He returned his hand to his cock and lazily stroked while they talked, maintaining sensation without building on it. He’d had a lot of practice with it... the ability to stay hard without peaking was occasionally quite useful in Wilde’s line of work. Some ‘interviewees’ needed more time to open up and tell him what he wanted than others.

They couldn’t all be Sir Bertrand MacGuffingham, thank all the gods high and low.

“So you like men more’n women,” Sasha said, and nodded. “Makes sense, ‘f you don’t want kids.  _ Way _ less risk of it.”

Wilde laughed, he couldn’t help it, a moment’s genuine amusement.

“You’re very correct about that. Although even without that consideration, gentlemen are still my dalliance of preference.”

“Why d’you talk like that?”

Wilde blinked. “...I’m sorry...?”

Sasha waved a hand at him. “Like - all posh an’ that. Fancy words an’ long sentences, I know good and well you can talk  _ normal _ , right? You know you don’t have t’ try an’ impress me, right?”

Wilde contemplated this in silence. Far from quelling his arousal, conversation always tended to intensify it - particularly interesting conversation, and generally anything involving Sasha was interesting for one reason or another. Reflexively, he nudged his hips upward, giving himself a brief spike of pleasure that made him suck in a soft breath.

Sasha’s attention sharpened, but Wilde was already answering.

“I suppose,” he said, his voice a touch breathy, “it’s habit, by now.” He allowed himself another small roll of his hips, slower this time, elongating the movement both for his own pleasure and so that Sasha could see what he was doing. “One learns to adapt to one’s surroundings-” The roll back downward tugged the head of his cock through his fingers and Wilde hissed. “-or -or one does not survive.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, just feeling the surrounding warmth of his palm as he swept a stroke downward.

“And the sharks infesting the waters in which I generally swim are very posh indeed,” Wilde finished. Sasha, watching the movement of his hips and his hand, nodded.

“Yeah but- like, thing is,  _ I  _ ain’t posh. Grizzop ain’t posh, nor’s Azu. An’ I mean, ‘amid is, yeah? But like. He dun’t count, really. Not  _ really _ .” She bestowed upon Wilde a lopsided, slightly awkward smile.

Wilde wasn’t sure if the awkwardness was due to the subject matter, or the fact that while they discussed his linguistic habits she was, with clear interest in the proceedings but not in Wilde himself, watching him masturbate. It was, he had to admit, quite a novel set of circumstances.

“Correct on all points, I suppose,” he agreed. “But still... habit. And an old one.” Wilde palmed the sensitive head of his cock with a practiced twist of the wrist and audibly gasped this time. “I’m told they- they die hard.”

He hadn’t even intended the pun that time, but Sasha laughed.

“I get it,” she said brightly. “I get it now! Good one, Wilde!”

Sasha scooted the cushion on which she sat a bit closer still, sitting nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with Wilde without actually making contact.

“You  _ like _ the talkin’, don’t you? While this is goin’ on.”

Wilde shrugged one shoulder, letting the movement tug his hand up for another frisson outside the rhythm he had established.

“I do,” he admitted. “The secret that many never discover is that if the  _ mind _ is not engaged... the body responds only half so well, if at all.” Wilde turned his head to look at her. “Conversation; intellectual or creative pursuits... I find these pleasurable, and they serve to enhance the pursuit of pleasure.”

“Huh.”

It was not so much dismissive now as contemplative. Sasha watched in silence for a moment, then said, “I mean. ‘mnot exactly  _ intellectual _ . But like- I can talk t’you. If you like.”

Wilde smirked and replied, “Is that not what we’ve been doing? All these years thinking exchanging words was talking, how  _ could  _ I have been so wrong?”

She hit him on the shoulder, and he laughed.

“I deserved that. Genuinely: you  _ have _ been talking to me.” Wilde indicated, with his free hand, his firm erection. “With, indeed, the expected results.”

There came a third ‘huh’ from Sasha, and she leaned one shoulder against the wall upon which Wilde was propped at an increasingly uncomfortable angle.

“D’you mind if I like- if I watch t’th’end?”

Wilde shook his head. “Why would I mind? You’ve seen this much, twice now even. And I’ve little enough shame, when circumstances allow for it.”

“Alright.” Sasha watched in thoughtful silence for a moment, then asked, “-how long does it take, usually - I mean- it didn’t take long  _ last _ time, right? Least, I didn’t think so, but I dunno, maybe that was, like-”

Wilde, his spine finally protesting the awkward angle, rolled his shoulders back against the wall and shoved his hips forward to let him slide down and lie fully on the floor.

“That depends.” Wilde wriggled a little to get comfortable - the shift in position had tugged his trousers uncomfortably higher, and he took a moment to shove them back down to a properly disrespectable location. “I can prolong it for rather a long while, if necessary or if I’m in the mood to take my time.” He closed his eyes and tipped his chin up, relishing the slightly taut feeling in his throat. “Or it can be quite quick. Generally when I just need to release some, ah...  _ tension _ , the latter tends to be the case.”

“What was it last time?”

“A bit of both, I suppose.”

Wilde closed his hand over his cock again and did not, this time, make any attempt to mute or disguise his reactions.

“I’d intended to take my time,” he murmured, letting his eyes half-close as he began a slow, even stroke from base to tip. “But it had been a while. Things get a little, ah - pent up? For someone natured as I am, at least.”

Another noncommittal ‘huh’. “Seemed t’enjoy y’rself at least,” Sasha replied, and Wilde grinned a little.

“That’s rather the point, isn’t it.”

Sasha fell quiet and seemed inclined to remain thus, and Wilde let himself drift, let himself relax into his rhythm and let the pleasure of it build layer over layer. He was aware of his own breath growing shallower, a little faster; he felt his pulse pick up, quickening with the pace of his palm and slender fingers around his own cock.

“C’n I tell you something, Wilde?” Sasha’s voice was quiet and unobtrusive, as was Sasha herself so frequently. “Without it like, bein’ weird?”

Wilde let out a breath, long and slow, and nodded, not trusting himself at the moment to speak.

There was another interlude of pensive silence beside him. Wilde didn’t mind; Sasha would speak up - or not - if and when she felt compelled to. Curiosity nibbled at him, but he was at the moment preoccupied enough to disregard it.

He rolled his hips upward again, granting himself another delicious slide of extra friction, a momentary ghost of actually  _ fucking _ , and as the tiniest almost-whimper left his lips, Sasha spoke again, not quite in a whisper.

“So like- before, right, when you were- um, when you were almost - done? I guess? It was like... so like, I don’t see like-  _ people,  _ right. As y’know,  _ pretty  _ an’ that. Just doesn’t like- I guess it just isn’t a  _ thing _ , for me.”

Wilde kept his eyes closed, vaguely certain that if he stopped or slowed or changed at all what he was doing, gave any indication he was actually listening to her, Sasha would immediately stop talking. So he continued as he was, stoking his pleasure through graceful stroke after stroke of his cock.

Another thrust upward through his fist made him catch his breath; that one hadn’t been deliberate, and Sasha continued, as though she was deliberately waiting for moments when Wilde seemed more distracted.

“But like - when I was with Gusset- you remember Gusset, yeah? ‘e’s the gnome whose shop got all wrecked an’ torn up while we were still in London. Anyway, ‘e‘s who taught me to  _ appraise  _ stuff. Dead useful skill, that. Knowin’ what somethin’s worth, knowin’ what’s  _ real _ , an’ what ain’t. An’ like, that day, while you were all like... just  _ gone _ , just  _ not in the world _ , like, kinda- I dunno, lost for a few minutes, like nothin’ was wrong, like none o’this awfulness was goin’ on-”

Sasha paused. Wilde  _ was _ lost, a little, the familiar sharp heat of  _ want _ pooling in his belly, sending his mind a little adrift, setting the sparks in his nerves that would eventually flare into flame. He exhaled a sigh that carried a soft moan in its wake, and Sasha continued, “An’ I thought, just then, just in that moment - I thought,  _ Oscar Wilde is a work of art _ .”

The words did not immediately register with any real meaning - just syllables at first, sounds with shapes to them, delivered in Sasha’s uncultured, familiar voice. What she had  _ actually said _ sank into his mind belatedly, and when it did Wilde’s pulse skipped. There was an intensity in Sasha’s voice that he had never heard before now. It belied an appreciation that he had not suspected she possessed.

That fleeting moment of raw honesty revealed something akin to actual passion, from a person that Wilde had never thought to consider capable of it - a grave error on his part and he knew it; the passions of other people, whatever the source or expression, were in many ways his stock in trade. Passion was something he appreciated. Passion  _ spoke to him _ , viscerally; instinctively; inevitably. It never failed to pierce him to the heart and there find a connection with the endless well of it that was the essence of Oscar Wilde.

And this brief glimpse of it from Sasha was an altogether unanticipated match to the waiting tinder of Wilde’s climax.

His hips surged upward, his spine bent with his shoulders pressed almost painfully into the floor underneath him, heels skidding forward.

Wilde had just enough presence of mind to bite his lip to try to prevent himself crying out, a hellishly difficult task. He  _ wanted _ to; the instinct to scream ecstasy to the heavens ran riot through him, and every muscle tightened, every nerve  _ sang  _ with his sudden and devastating orgasm.

Wilde arched as though suspended by a single puppet-wire at the navel and hung there, quivering and transfixed for what could have been, to his imploding senses, an eternity.

When he finally collapsed, gasping for breath and nearly sobbing, Sasha was not immediately visible next to him. Before he could gather enough wit to wonder where she’d gone, her boots appeared in his line of vision, and she crouched down beside him.

“‘ere,” she said quietly, sounding slightly awed. “Thought y’might need summat like this.”

Sasha held out what Wilde recognised after a moment as a small towel.

The laughter bubbled up, as impossible to repress as had been his orgasm, and Wilde reached with his free hand to take it from her.

“Thank you,” Wilde whispered, and struggled to haul himself back into a sitting position. It was difficult with muscles and bones that appeared to have dissolved into each other, but he managed. “You don’t have to stay for this part,” he murmured, and began the process of cleaning up what turned out to be, to his mild surprise, rather a significant mess.

Sasha shrugged and stood up again. “That looked.” She paused, and settled on, “-painful? ‘m guessin’ it wasn’t, though, or y’wouldn’t do it.”

Wilde shook his head.

“Not painful,” he confirmed. Setting the towel aside, he refastened the buttons of his trousers with trembling hands. “It’s... overwhelming. Incredibly, intensely pleasurable. But not painful.”

Wilde braced on the floor to push himself to his feet and was startled when Sasha’s hand appeared in front of him.

“Need a hand?”

He looked up with a thread of suspicion, and yes, she was grinning.

“Not a  _ great  _ one, I know. But. ‘s late, yeah? I’ll think up a better one tomorrow.”

Wilde gave her a tiny, breathless laugh, and took her hand. She hauled him to his feet, steadied him while he found his balance.

“So. Yeah.” Sasha glanced at him then away toward the door. “Thanks for. For not bein’ angry, Wilde. An’ for answerin’ my questions, yeah?”

Wilde, in the middle of buttoning his shirt closed, lifted his head to look at her. His mouth twitched in something that wanted to be a smile, but not strongly enough to actually put in the effort. All his available energy was currently being spent on remaining upright.

“Sasha,” he replied solemnly, “I can say with complete sincerity that it was my pleasure.” And Sasha, to his delight, laughed.

“Cheers, Wilde,” she told him, and slipped out the door.

**Author's Note:**

> “Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship." - Oscar, of course

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Appraisal [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24845479) by [KD reads (KDHeart)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KDHeart/pseuds/KD%20reads)




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